• ro
  • en
  • The Murmur of the Forest

    On the pond bright sparks are falling,
    Wavelets in the sunlight glisten;
    Gazing on the woods with rapture,
    Do I let my spirit capture
    Drowsiness, and lie and listen…
    Quails are calling.

    All the silent water sleeping
    Of the streams and of the rivers;
    Only where the sun is shining
    Thousand circles there designing
    As with fright its surface shivers,
    Swiftly leaping.

    Pipe the birds midst woods concealing,
    Which of us their language guessing?
    Birds of endless kinds and races
    Chirp amidst its leafy places
    And what wisdom they expressing
    And what feeling.

    Asks the cuckoo: “Who has seen
    Our beloved summer idol,
    Beautiful beyond all praising
    Through her languid lashes gazing,
    Our most lovely, tender, bridal,
    Forest queen?”

    Bends the lime with gentle care
    Her sweet body to embower;
    In the breeze his branches singing
    Lift her in their arms upswinging,
    While a hundred blossoms shower
    On her hair.

    Asks the brooklet as it flows
    “Where has gone my lovely lady?
    She, who evening hour beguiling,
    In my silver surface smiling,
    Broke its mirror deep and shady
    With her toes?”

    I replied: “O forest, she
    Comes no more, no more returning !
    Only you, great oaks, still dreaming
    Violet eyes, like flowers gleaming,
    That the summer through were yearning
    Just for me.”

    Happy then, alone we twain,
    Through the forest brush-wood striding !
    Sweet enchanted tale of wonder
    That the darkness broke asunder…
    Dear wherever you’d be hiding,
    Come again !


    Translated by Corneliu M. Popescu